Stay
by Simone Robinson
Summary: "He saw nothing but bullets now. Bullets and darkness that seared his skin, and left scars that he nursed well into the night, when the burn of whisky tore his throat and the tears tore his cheeks. He threw the whisky away, the glass shattering on the ground, into a million pieces. That would stain the carpet." SAINW. Nights get cold when you are alone, and all you want is warmth.


**A/N: Set in SAINW world.**

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><p><strong>Stay<strong>

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><p>The air stung his cheeks, cold against his warmth. Blood pumped through his veins and Leo could feel it warming the surface of his skin, rushing through the tension of his muscles. From his crouched position, he could feel the dirt, gritty against his fingertips. It seemed to work its way into every crease in his skin. It would stick there for days and no number of uncomfortably warm showers would cleanse it.<p>

Leo grimaced in distaste, but that was the least of his worries. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dull pain thudded, an ominous drumbeat that had worked its way into the very fabric of his consciousness, and threatened to tear a whole down the middle. Leo's features tightened and he steeled his resolve. Days like this. Days fighting, only to come home to emptiness, to stay on edge until sleep claimed him. Days. Weeks. Months.

_Years._

He laughed loudly at a joke that only he had heard. The night seemed to pulse with a rhythm only he understood, only he saw. Everyone else saw darkness, evil and hell, a city that swallowed you up and spat you up, as a chewed out husk not worth anything. Not worth a chalk outline when you were sent crushed into the asphalt. When the city finally had its last and final laugh.

_But not yet_. This city hadn't seen the last of him yet. This city would taste blood. This city would feel the pain that coursed through his veins. It would feel whatever he damn well wanted it to.

He tried to remember who had talked him into this. His mind was fuzzy, and it felt like someone had pulled out his brains and stuffed his head full of unwanted thoughts, of uncertain ideas and fucked up, unfulfilled promises. He didn't know how to get the voices to shut up. They never shut up when he wanted them to. They never shut up at all. Except when he needed them to. Then everything was quiet.

He hated the quiet. He never used to before this. But now the quiet seeped in with the darkness and there was nothing. He had grown up in a house full of brothers, of noise and fighting and fun. Of pranks and punches and nights curled up on the couch, passed out after a horror movie. That was how it had always been.

But now there was nothing but silence. Silence until the blessed sounds of guns, of shooting and bullets that burned into his mind, seared the back of his eyes until that was all he saw when he closed his eyes. He saw nothing but bullets now. Bullets and darkness. The bullets that seared his skin, scratched into him, burnt and left scars that he nursed well into the night, when the burn of whisky tore his throat and the tears tore his cheeks. There wasn't much sake anymore. He didn't care. He didn't drink for the taste. Not anymore. So now there was just whiskey, and the salt of tears.

They two mingled, and sometimes, he thought he was drinking the tears of the past, the tears of his brothers, the tears of the dead. He threw the whisky away, the glass shattering on the ground, into a million pieces. That would stain the carpet.

He didn't care. Sensei would have cared. Sensei wasn't there. Raph would have cared about the wasted scotch. But he wasn't here either. Not anymore.

No one was. And sometimes, that killed him.

But maybe it had killed him already. Maybe he had long since gone insane.

Bed. He needed sleep. He shrugged off his coat and pulled off the glasses that hid his eyes from the world. No one could see in, just like he could no longer see out. Practiced hands found the bed, and he tumbled into it.

As a warrior, you slept when the opportunity presented itself, for you did not know when you would find sleep again. Time that was not used constructively, in honing your mind and body into the perfect blade, should be used to recharge your batteries, and find rest and solace and peace.

Leonardo believed in this fully, and practised it every day of his life.

But tonight the stars, the universe and his body seemed to conspire against his well thought plans, laying them to ruin. Minutes of exhaustion turned into hours, and yet sleep continued to elude him. It taunted him, remaining just out of his grasp, darting away the second it seemed to be in reach. The voices were loud tonight, and the cold felt all too real. Like it could reach into his soul and pull even the blessed memories from him. Sleep. He had to sleep.

The need for sleep pulled at his emotions, making them worn out and weary. His patience grew thin and his blankets grew too heavy, too cumbersome, yet the room felt too icy without them.

The floorboards inside these walls were warped and broken. Mould bloomed black on the walls. He covered his beak with his hands, trying to block out the smell. A few chairs lay on the flood, their seats ripped out, and exposing mildewed grey insides. The ceiling was falling down in clumps.

The miserable sight smelt of death and decay and neglect, but outside, a blizzard roared, shouting out curses to all those who had dared to leave their beds that night. Nature was fierce and it's towering might had closed down the city in a way that no one had seen for years. It was an insurmountable challenge poised to the city, to its inhabitants. Survive this, New York.

Leo smiled, something that didn't reach his eyes. Something that frayed at the edges, like torn cloth, unravelling before them.

He didn't know when he had dropped his guard. He didn't know when the darkness had crept into his mind and made everything go dim. He didn't know when the bed had grown warm. No enemies. No enemy could sneak up on him. He turned his head into the pillows and silently prayed that this was not a dream, was not an illusion born from a wistful heart and tired mind. He prayed that the fiery warmth of the body beside him would stay through the night, like when they were kids. He felt breath on his skin and willed the pillow to soak away his tears of relief.

_Stay_…

Suddenly, his breathing was much deeper, and a sort of peace he didn't even know he'd been missing, flooded the room. The sheets felt suddenly inviting and soft against his skin, and it felt good to stretch out into them, to curl up and settle for the night. And everything was drenched in a pleasant warmth that he never wanted to end. Eyelids growing heavy, Leo felt his strength leaving him, and for the first time, he didn't mind. Because every warrior needed rest, and he was finally getting his.

Warm. _He had missed his warmth so much._

So they lay under sheets of dust, and prayed that the morning wouldn't come soon. Because in the morning, everything would be cold again.

_Stay!_

But for now there was warmth…

And Leonardo had never wanted anything this much.


End file.
